Part of Chapter 12

The magician looks tired; he sits at the table, the rest of us following suit. Jay looks curious; I'm trying to avoid the magician's gaze. Whatever he is, Roan respects him and that's enough to make me not want to wave the fact that I do curses in his face. "I didn't come here because of Lucas, not directly. This city already has a magician."

        Roan doesn't move her wheelchair back from the table; the magician doesn't flinch even a little at the glare she levels on him. “Pardon me?”

        “When did you stop being a magician?” He asks softly, and she goes still at whatever she sees in his face. It’s not pity; I don’t know what it is. Something private between magicians.

        “When my legs were fucking eaten,” Roan says harshly. "You may have noticed that."

        “You didn’t cast the magic aside,” he says. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t.”

        “Honcho? I'm confuthed,” Jay says. “I thought Roan wanted her legth eaten off?”

        Roan is silent for a few seconds. “Why do you think anyone would want that?”

        Jay scoots back a little in his chair at her expression, looking baffled. “Becauthe being in that powerchair ith tho much cooler than walking. Could I try it?”

        Roan blinks. The magician buries his face in his hands. A small, horrible part of me wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

        “You can stop talking anytime now, Jay,” the magician says.

        “I didn’t mean with her in it, of courthe!” he says.

        “Of course not.” Roan looks dazed. “How silly of me. I have a spare chair in the garage with a key in it; you could try that on the driveway?”

        “Really? Thankth!” Jay grins and is gone from the table in a blur to the sound of doors opening and closing in rapid succession.

        Roan smiles at the magician. “I haven’t seen you that discomfited since the incident in the Grand Canyon.”

        He smiles back. “You’re lucky you don’t have an artificial limb; he would have insisted on trying to fix it for you.”

        “He thinks I wanted this. Do you?”

        “Jay doesn’t see the world in ways humans do.”

        “That isn’t an answer.”

        “You have wards about this place,” he says softly. “You bound Lucas’s power, Roan. You can speak in the voice of a magician, and you think you somehow stopped being one? Where, why, and when?”

        “You know the fucking answer to that,” she snaps.

        “You buried much of your power, yes. But you did not renounce it nor set it aside. You think this would still be being paid for if you had,” the magician asks, gesturing to the house around us. “I sent Jay here because you were not holding the city together well enough, Roan. I did not know why then. I’m not arrogant to believe I do now.”

The glorious failure

The Lucas Series story is done. 12 chapters, 23,000 and change words. I had a plot, and characters, but the plot decided to die in chapter 3 when one character objected to being cursed even minutely in the strongest terms and certain plot threads felt too closely tied in tone and nature to Roadside Attractions at the End of the World, a novel I first wrote in 2007 (and revised in 2009). Some of it was the nature of a magic involving cursing, some a character I excised from the draft. Which also removed most of the role for a major character. And so the story fell apart entirely despite efforts to shore up and fix the plot.

The characters worked, though the story became less dark than it should have; some characters never got a chance to shine at all, and eventually I mean to rectify that. Point of order: I wrote 23,000 words in 18 days. To some, that might seem like a lot but the first 7K were on the first day: everything after became a bit of a slog, for many reasons, enough that only 2 of the 12 chapters will survive semi-intact in the next version.

Things to fix:

• This story wanted to be a novel. I knew I didn’t have the time to give a novel treatment what it deserved. A first draft is basically the writer telling themselves how the story works, and I knew this wouldn’t even be that at this point.
• It needs to be told from multiple POVs: Taylor needs a POV chapter (at least one) since he’s too damn shy otherwise. Also, with a longer timeframe Rico could show up and having to explain to your boyfriend exactly why you have a friend he doesn’t know, a magician and a ten year old kid staying at their condo will be a scene that practically writes itself.
• Kells and Eric both got shafted, plot and story wise. They need bigger roles and a lot more time in the story. Also, Lucas’ family needs to be involved.
• I need to work out the actual feel of a magic based on cursing a lot better, and have Lucas use it more often as well as having it use him. This is magic in the horrible evil witch sense of things and the story should be made dark and ugly because of it.
• The story is character-based. My idea of doing such a story with a friend and publishing it online won’t work too well with such a story; I’m not a person who writes in chapters by nature, and the beats required for a serial story don’t fit my writing style for such stories; will need to re-think the approach toward one. 

And there is now a Jay in the Lucas series...

It doesn’t take long to hear footsteps; I duck behind a couple of trees and spot a pale boy of about ten wandering along with headphones in his ears. Behind him is what appears to be a thin older man who is moving too swiftly and silently to be human at all. I hesitate, because it seems too quick and far too easy, and the man moves. The kid is faster, so quick I barely catch it as he spins and slams a palm inrto the old man’s chest with a shout of “Hi-ya!”

The old man – whatever he was – dissolves into shadows that pull apart like cheap toffee. The kid bounces happily from foot to foot and whoops in joy. I remember what Roan said about monsters and Outsiders fighting each other for power and prestige, take a deep breath. I broke my arm in four places when I was seven. I pull up the memory of that, think of breaking bones as a curse, try to will the pressure inside my head from the talent to grow and hurl it right at the kid.

He spins. Seeing me or sensing me, but the curse slams into him regardless, and the idea of breaking bones punches him clear through at least a dozen trees into the forest. I make my way back onto the path slowly, trying to catch my breath. I feel as though I’ve just ran a three-minute mile and my head doesn’t hurt at all.

Which means I’ve nothing to give when the kid is simply there, standing on the path and staring up at me with a shocked look on his face. His clothing is torn and dirty but he doesn’t have a single scratch on his skin. “What wath that for?” he demands with a furious glare up at me.

“What?”

“You hurt me!” His hands unclench from his sides and he lifts up his right hand to reveal one small, broken molar. No blood on his mouth or the tooth. “Thee?”

I open my mouth, snap it shut after. “What are you?”

“Are you thtupid? I am hurt. Honcho thaid I could deal with the troubleth in thith thity just fine and then you – you – I don’t even know you and that wath a killing magic! What kind of perthon trieth to kill thomeone they don’t even know?” he finishes, and it is the wounded hurt in his face that forces me back a few steps rather than his anger.

“I was hunting monsters to – to try and become a magician. I think,” I whisper, and it sounds stupid even as I say it.

“Oh.” The kid blinks once at that. “You thought I wath a monthter?”

“You moved faster than humans do.”

“Oh!” He actually smacks himself on the forehead with his left palm at that. “I wath buthy trying to banithh the lurker and you thaw....” He trails off.

“I thought I was a bigger monster taking out the competition.”

The kid’s jaw drops at that and he stares up at me as if I had at least four heads, then breaks into a huge grin. “You thought I was thtrong?”

“Yes?”

“Awethome! I’m glad you hit me now,’ he says happily, then opens his mouth wide and shoves his tooth to the back, eyes unfocusing for a second before he pulls his hand out and rubs his jaw a little. “That’th better, but it thtill feelth weird.”

“You still have a lisp.”

He looks confused, then grins again. “I alwayth have that,” and thrust out his right hand. “I’m Jay.”

“Lucas.” His grip doesn’t break my hand. I’m not eaten or worse. I have no idea if that is a good thing or not.

“I think Luke thoundth better,” he says seriously. “I’m going to call you that.”

“Okay?”

“Good!” He beams up at me and turns and heads further into the park. “I can find monthterth for you.”

....................

My head is aching a little again, which I take to be a good sign if I need to curse anyone. I follow, my way more clumsy and loud but Jay doesn’t seem all that worried by that as he grabs my right hand and pulls me around trees and roots, not even bothering to suggest either of us use phones as flashlights. I just try not to fall, and come to a halt as he does to see something moving between trees. It is tall, at least ten feet in height, thin and grey, looking for all the world like a vine growing up into the sky as it flows and moves along the ground, sprouting limbs and shoots like blades that move about trees.

Jay just stands, not moving, actually shutting up. And that’s enough for me to pause and watch as whatever this creature is continues to move. It’s hard to make out with just moonlight, but I’m almost certain it is removing dead branches.

“Altho,” Jay says without looking over, “putting birdth nethtth back into plathe.”

“Nests?”

“Those, yup! And it hath teeth, and clawth, so you can kill thith monthter right now.”

I stare at the moving vine-creature, then down at Jay. “Please tell me you’re not trying to be subtle?”

The kid crosses his arms. “I might be!”

I count to ten silently in order to stop myself from laughing. “Yelling at someone doesn’t work if you’re trying to be subtle.”

“Oh.” He thinks that over. “It could be a double bluff?”

“Look, I meant – hell, I don’t know what I mean. I have a talent to curse things and I need to control it. Becoming a magician could do that, and the only way I think it happens is if you defeat monsters. Unless I’m wrong?”

Jay scratches his head and begins walking back toward the trail. “You’re athking me?”

“You do seem to know stuff,” I say, as patiently as I can manage.

“I do?” He looks shocked at that, then breaks into another huge grin and pumps the air with one fist. “That’th awethome, but it’th not true at all. I don’t know how people become magithans at all; Honcho doethn’t talk about it.”

“So this Honcho person is a magician?”

“Yup.”

“And you are?” I press.

“Hith friend,” Jay snaps, as if that should be obvious.  

Lucas Series: Chapter 1

I’m not dead enough when my ex-girlfriend breaks into my apartment. Dead asleep, I mean, though not for want of trying. The only reason I hear the door give is because it’s finally quiet: the screaming from the asshole up in 402 had stopped yesterday, and I’m almost sure it’s my fault that the screams were replaced with sirens this morning. I self-medicated that thought with the last of the booze above the fridge, ignored the landlord screaming about rent somewhere in all that. But Kelly breaking the door in with her shoulder wakes me from my tangle of filthy sheets and clothing in the middle of the floor.

I figured someone would come eventually once bills stopped being paid and I didn’t show up for work. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that it took almost a week, trying to put it all together in my head when she stares down at me as if she’s never seen me before, with something that is at least one part pity to two parts shock. Throw in disgust and horror and you have the cocktail of my life for the last few days.

I don’t want to kill her, but I’m not sure I can stop myself.

“Lucas?” she says, sounding as if she wasn’t certain.

I wanted to say: it’s only been a week. Or ask: am I that far gone? but all that comes out is: “Go away, Kells.”

Everyone else calls her Kelly. That pulls her into the room. It’s a cheap bachelor deal: room for a double bed, couch, tv on a dresser, bathroom and the microwave stand it advertised as a ‘kitchen’ taking up a whole wall. It wasn’t pretty when I moved in, but right now it’s all discarded garbage, ruined clothing and a weeks worth of BO making some death metal music jam of smells.

Kelly doesn’t even try for her retail-mask of a smile, just crouches down without coming closer like I’m some homeless man in a back alley she’s half-scared of catching rabies from. “Lucas.” She pauses, then: “Eric called me when you missed the match at his place last night. You don’t miss the match for anything.”

Not even your birthday, I almost say, catch myself. Even this far gone I can do that much. It had been our first big fight since we’d moved in together last year, before everything fell apart between us. She’s staring at me, waiting, and I fumble toward words. “I’m fine. Go away.”

“Fine.” She lets out a short bark and stands, gesturing to compass the room sharply with both hands; her voice is calm, her anger in movement like it always is. “Show me how this is fine.”

I look around, half against my will. It’s been almost a week. I haven’t done dishes. Bathed. Laundry. I’ve done nothing but finish the last of the food, drink, and sleep. I’ve been terrified to watch TV, piss-pants scared to go outside. I don’t know why that led to letting the apartment fall apart. I stand on my second try, the bed not wanting to let go of me, move into the bathroom. There is black mold all over the ceiling; I could have sworn it wasn’t there last week.

“I wanted my outside to mirror the inside.” I don’t know if Kelly hears me, or even if I speak out loud. I splash water into my face, run some through my hair, remember working in a McDonalds years back: my hair feels like the grease trap. Has it been just one week? I don’t know. I’m scared to ask. She hasn’t called the police yet, or even Eric. He and I’ve been friends for over ten years and always watched the football matches together – insisting on calling it that and not soccer – and there had been a big match coming up. I’m sure of that, even if I can’t quite recall what.

I turn on the bathtub and dunk my head under ice water until the cold punishes me awake, stagger up, shake it off and go back into the room proper. Kelly is close to the door. She hasn’t bolted but her cell phone is in her right hand like a talisman. I don’t think she trusts me right now. Only fair. I don’t either. There is a buzzing behind my eyes, between them. I shudder from it, take a breath, manage another without coughing.

“You have a cig? I ran out four days ago.” For some reason, this seems important.

“You haven’t been out for cigarettes.” Her words are careful. Measured. “Why?” she says then. To that. To everything.

“I’m scared,” I say, to the everything, and it is terribly easy to say.

“All right. I called a cab; they’ll take us to the hospital, you can be checked out. I have an aunt who snapped once: she collected glass butterflies and one day she just broke them all and my uncle came come to find her eating them. She had a vacation, took a couple of drugs for a few weeks and was fine after that. No one is okay all the time.”

“No shrinks. I’m not –.”

“Lucas. You missed the game,” she says, and the edge under that catches me like a fish, shakes me all over.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“That’s what hospitals are for. Come on,” she says, and I take one step. Another. The first step is hard, the ones after it easier. I make it to the hallway, follow her down the stairs. I smell ripe, sour and overdone but she doesn’t say a word in protest. Part of me goes: you were never worthy of her, but I shove it aside and follow her out into the dark.

It’s raining a little as we get outside and I let the rain hit me, pretend it can wash away anything that matters. I want to say: “Look, Kells, I’m not crazy,” but I have this suspicion only crazy people say that. The cab is checkered yellow and black and I follow Kelly into it, taking the other back seat. I’m trying not to look at the driver, trying not to see the world outside the windows. I’m a good driver, so I hate bad drivers, and the last – the really last thing I need – is road rage. Because my head is hurting, and it would stop hurting after that, and I can do right now is try not to think about Kelly, tell myself I don’t hate her at all, that I never did, that she was right to leave me.

It’s easier to think that, right now. “I’m not crazy.” This time I know I say it aloud because she turns to me. “It would be easier if I was.”

It sounds silly, like a bad movie line, but she doesn’t laugh. “Eric said he went in to see you at work, about some records you’d put aside for him to buy, and they told him you hadn’t been in all week. They’d left messages. He figured it on the flu, until you never called to cancel out of seeing the match. He had to go into work, catering some party, or he’d have come. He called me instead.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say, so I say that. The cab ride is fast, the streets near-empty. It’s late, painfully so, but Kelly doesn’t push me. I’d probably cry at that, if I wasn’t a guy. I just sit, and wait, and she peels off worn bills for the cab driver as I realize I don’t even know where my wallet is at all only to find it my front pocket of my jeans when I always keep it in the back. The hospital is all pale lights, the kind that make everyone into zombies – or the doughy kind, in my case – and the nurse who asks questions doesn’t care and can’t care or she’d break.

The nurse says it will be a few hours, directs me to a cheap plastic seat, the kind even McDonalds no longer uses. I sit. I tell Kelly she should go. It will be a while, she has a shift in the morning – I think? – and she says she does. I try to push without anger, without being me, and she listens, fights back a yawn she doesn't want to give voice to. I pull out what money is left in my wallet, shove it to her for a cab home, insist she go. She leaves when I thank her. I’ve never been good at thanking anyone. I don’t know if that does it. I don’t know if she catches that I don’t want her to be around me, even if not why. I’m trying not to think about how she left. Trying to ignore the feeling behind the eyes, what happens after it gets out of me.

I don’t know what she catches in my voice, in my movements, in me. Maybe she’s just glad for the excuse, since it’s been almost a year. Nine months, about ten days, maybe twelve. I can remember how long it’s been since we broke up, but I can’t recall what day our anniversary was on. It’s almost a relief when the nurse comes and tells me to follow her past a room that smells of dead chemicals.